


In This Valley Of Dying Stars

by Jiksa



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Break Up, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9296429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: He’s been waiting for Pete to fuck things up like he always does and for Ashlee to leave like they always do. But Pete hasn’t yet and maybe Ashlee’s the one who won’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Stars, road, decisions." Thanks to [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow)/[LadySmutterella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysmutterella) and [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan) for beta reading and cheerleading. 
> 
> Set early in the hiatus. Mentions of Bronx.

The end comes _not with a bang, but a whimper._

It’s a line from something Pete read to him once, borrowed words whispered into the sleepless darkness of a grimy motel room somewhere in the Midwest. Pete had told him the poem was about mortality, or the end of the world, or heaven or hell, or something serious like that, but Patrick just remembers the feel of Pete’s bottom lip under his thumb, the fan of Pete’s eyelashes against his flushed cheeks, the way everything in Patrick’s head had shouted _you and I won’t ever end, we won’t, we can’t, you’re mine._

It’s a stupid thing to think of. It’s late when it happens, sometime past one or three am, and Patrick’s huddled in a lawn chair in Pete’s backyard, sweating through his T-shirt and struggling to hold his liquor. There are still people around, but he didn't want to talk to anyone before he got hammered and now there's just no point. He tried tracing constellations earlier, but between the light pollution and the actual pollution he can’t see shit from here.

He hates LA. He’s always hated LA. He hates the traffic, the heat, the noise, the vapidity of the place. The whole town feels like the cool kids’ table at a high school cafeteria and no matter how popular the band gets or how much money accumulates in his bank account, he knows he doesn’t belong. Work and Pete are the only two reasons he’s ever come down here, and now that they’ve decided to put the band on hold…

The party’s been dwindling for a while, guests giving slurred, theatrical goodbyes before staggering drunkenly off into awaiting cabs with their ties undone or stilettos dangling from one hand. Pete and Ashlee’s friends. Models and DJs and industry suits. Patrick should’ve left ages ago. He doesn’t know why he’s still here. He’s the only one of Pete’s lovers who’s never known when to walk away.

Pete’s always loved too fast, too hard, too bright, too much. He’s ruined every person he’s ever loved; sunk his teeth too deep and torn them apart and written vicious, beautiful poetry once they've gone. He’s like that guy from that book with the mouse in his fist; he doesn’t know how to hold someone in his hand without squeezing too tightly.

Patrick used to be the only one who hadn’t left Pete’s life in a body bag after a few months in his bed. It's not like either of them have ever called it love out loud, but, until recently, at least he'd been the only person Pete had ever fucked who would still take his calls. He used to think that meant something, but he knows better now.

Ashlee Simpson-Wentz is draped luxuriously over the arm of a chair across the pool, laughing brightly with her beautiful friends in between sips of sparkling wine. She’s the life of the party, all the glitter and pomp and artifice of LA in one fuckable package. Pete had a panic attack the morning she peed on a stick and got a solid blue line. Now there's a tiny human in the world with his wild curls and her pointy jaw. Pete doesn’t take her ring off when he climbs into Patrick’s bed. He never spends the night anymore.

Maybe that means Ashlee is Pete-proof, maybe she’s Pete’s for keeps. Maybe the poems he reads her aren't about how everything inevitably comes to an end.

Patrick’s kept an apartment in LA for over four years, just a ten minute drive from Pete’s house. Seven minutes if his palms are sweating, his heart hammering in his chest and he knows she won’t be back home until sometime after nine. It’s only sixteen hundred square feet with furniture that came with the place and a view of city lights and concrete and nothing else, but it does the job. He could probably pack his shit in three hours and walk away from it like he was never there. Turn onto the 101, walk away from Pete like he should have years ago and drive somewhere that isn’t so fucking bright and loud that it drowns out everything else in the world.

He hates LA. He can’t see past the smog unless he drives up a massive hill outside the city and right now he’s too drunk to drive anywhere. He’s been waiting for Pete to fuck things up like he always does and for Ashlee to leave like they always do, but he hasn’t yet and maybe she’s the one who won’t.

He’s too drunk to keep a coherent thought going for longer than a minute. He’s still hot and damp and worn out. He still doesn’t want to be here, but he still hasn’t left. Pete told him to mingle, but the only person he has anything in common with is Ashlee. The only difference is that Pete loves her back.

It’s stupid. So stupid.

Pete doesn't notice him when he comes into the backyard, or maybe just he isn't looking. Instead he wraps an arm around his wife's sparkly waist and nuzzles her cheek. Patrick sees his lips moving.

Maybe he’s telling her that they’re out of ice cubes or that she’s the love of his life, maybe he’s telling her what he’s going to do to her later. Maybe he’s holding her carefully in the palm of his hand and not squeezing too tightly.

Patrick doesn't mean to meet his eyes. It's an accident.

Getting out of the lawn chair is an ordeal and a half. He stumbles into something pointy and bruising on his way back into the house and then makes a wrong turn trying to find a bathroom because Pete’s house is a sprawling, stupid, flashy maze. He throws up in a tiny trash can without a bin liner, half-kneeling, half-collapsed against a wall in a guest room. He throws up until he can’t anymore, and then there’s just pathetic hacking and snot sliding into his mouth and the crisp, shitty realization that this is the whimper that ends it.

It’s been nine years and a million notebooks of break up lyrics and a thousand fumbled fucks behind everyone else’s back and a flop of an album that he doesn’t think his band can come back from and Pete still isn't ever going to want Patrick back, not like Patrick wants him. 

“Trick?”

_Fuck._

Patrick wipes his face on his hands and then wipes his hands on his jeans. Pete shuts the door behind him with a quiet _click_. “Shit, I thought you'd left already. You okay?”

“Fine,” Patrick says, making a valiant effort to pull himself together and sit up straight and not throw up again. “Leaving now.”

“No, stay.” Pete sits down beside him and pats his back gently. Patrick’s seen him do the same to Bronx after he’s eaten. Little Bronx, who has his father’s eyes and his mother’s toes. Patrick is the worst person in the world. “Crash in a spare room. Ash is out all day tomorrow.”

There’s a smile in Pete’s voice, a trap Patrick’s fallen into a million times before. He presses his lips to the back of Patrick’s neck, soft and lingering.

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and his words out. “I’m leaving LA.”

Patrick’s first reaction to Pete grabbing his chin is to flail at him, but Pete perseveres until Patrick meets his eyes. Even through the blur of vomit tears his eyes are sharp. “What?”

Patrick doesn’t look at his mouth, at his parted lips stained a faint red from her lipstick. He doesn’t look at his eyes, dark and soft and confused. He doesn’t hesitate for one long, cruel moment. “I’m leaving,” he repeats, and his voice doesn’t shake. “I’m done. You, me, your pants on my floor when no one’s looking. LA. I fucking hate this place. Let go of me.”

Pete’s fingers tighten around his jaw, blunt nails digging in. “Patrick—“

“No.” He shoves him as hard as he can manage. “Let go of me or I’ll tell your fucking wife you take it up the ass from me when she's at yoga.” 

Pete recoils like he’s been shoved a lot harder than Patrick probably shoved him. Maybe he should’ve put some more muscle into it, maybe that would’ve been satisfying. He spits into the tiny bin between his legs. “I’m done being your dirty little secret.”

Pete doesn’t say anything. Patrick's been waiting for him to say something for years, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised. He wipes snot from his nose. That’s it, then.

He braces himself against the wall as he gets to his feet. He's just started walking away when Pete’s hand grabs his, fingers sliding easily between Patrick's own. “I have to try,” Pete whispers. “For B.”

Pete’s grip tightens on his hand. It hurts. Patrick has to tear himself loose. 

Two friends of Pete and Ashlee’s are standing on the curb, the guy’s tie undone around his neck and a pair of heels dangling from the girl’s hand. They’re kissing, cute and drunk and coy like they’re going to go home to fuck until they pass out.

He’s trying to call for a cab when the text comes, his fingers clammy and uncoordinated against the blindingly bright screen. _i’ll come over tomorrow morning. you can’t leave me. you can't._

It’s a ten minute drive from Pete’s place to his apartment, seven if he’s rushing. It’s a thirty minute walk, probably twenty if he runs. Forty if he has to stop to throw up again. It’ll take him three hours to pack up his shit, another few hours to sober up enough to drive somewhat legally. Two days to drive to Chicago. When Pete pulls up tomorrow morning with two takeaway coffees and a bag of pancake mix and soft eyes and greedy hands, he’ll be gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["The Hollow Men" by TS Eliot](https://allpoetry.com/The-Hollow-Men).
> 
> [tumblr](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/jiksax) | [email](mailto:ifckfairies@gmail.com?Subject=Hey%20girl)  
> 


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